Mary Milton, Or, The Conquests of Grace: A Brief Account of the Life ...

Front matter

Google to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

Preface

The authoress of this little work, a honntifnl recipieat of the grace of God, having comparatively late in life consecrated herself fully to His service, and desiring, if possible, to make some amends for past misspent years, by doing all the good in her power, in pointing sinners to '* the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world," and believers to a higher, holier state of Christian attainment, has written this sketch in hope of benefitting some, by giving a brief sketch of her own life and Christian experience ; to which she has subjoined several letters, addressed to her by her beloved father, now deceased. " Of making many books there is no end,^' saith the wise man ; and being persuaded that many books are made at the present day, which are worse than useless, whose highly colored delineations tend to vitiate the taste, and corrupt the morals of the reader, she gives this truthful account to the public, (some names however being fictitious,) with the confident assurance that, however little good may be derive^ from its perusal, no harm can result therefrom. If one Christian is led to seek and obtain holiness of heart, without which none can see the Lord, or one sinner the forgiveness of sins; if, in the great day when an assembled universe shall stand before the judgment seat of Christ, she may greet, on the right hand, but one soul, saved. or benefitted through this humble instrumentality, the end will be gained ; and all the glory shall be given to God, through Jesus Chkist our Lord. Amen.

Chapter I. The Fearful Discovery

MRS, Milton sat alone in her own quiet apartment. Alone, did I say ? not quite ; for a babe was slumbering in her arms, whom, ever and anon, she folded fondly to her bosom. Her countenance wore an expression of unmixed joy : no storm cloud had yet arisen to darken her bright sky. Scarce two years had passed, since her cousin, Greorge Milton, a young man in every way worthy of her, succeeded in winning her heart and hand, and took her to his own home, to share with him the joys and sorrows of life. Mrs. M possessed a warm, aflFectionate nature, and though her home was humble and her husband poor, his love, with that of her .heavenly Father, was sufficient riches for her, and her cup of happiness was full; and when, in addition to these, a little daughter was laid in her arms, the cup ran over ; and now her heart swelled

Z MARY MILTON.

with gratitude to God, for the many blessings lavished upon her. Alas.! she did not see the dark cloud gathering, just ready to burst upon her, and threatening to dispel all the former brightness of her life. A neighbor entered ; and with his step the babe awoke. He advanced, and greeting Mis. M., extended his hands to take the child. After playing with her a moment, he broke out with this startling interrogation ; "Mrs. Milton, do you know that your baby is blind ?" — Language cannot portray the effect of those words upon that mother's heart. Blind ? impossible. But though she could not, would not, credit the painful intelligence, experiments were immediately made, not so much to ascertain its truth, as in hope of proving its untruth. Al^s ! vain hope ! she was at length compelled, with a bleeding heart, to admit it was even so. None but those who have experienced similar trials can comprehend the feelings of these parents, consequent upon this fearful discovery, or the earnest solicitude and tender affection for the child, produced thereby. But the mother was not long to endure these pangs of anguish, or enjoy the pleasure of caring for her dependent one, as the following chapter will show.

CHAPTER IL

THE AFFLICTED HUSBAND.

TWO years have passed since Mrs. Milton's introduction to our readers. We find her, at this time, weak and prostrate, with another little daughter lying by her side. The former bright, joyous expression had faded from her countenance and given place to one of calm sadness. She had for some time felt impressed that she should not long survive the birth of this child, and her emotions "in view of this may be better imagined than described. To leave such a family, under such circumstances, must have cost a bitter struggle ; but we hear no murmur escaping from her lips. In a few days signs of returning health manifested themselves : she gained sufficient strength to arise from her bed, and measurably assume the care of her babe. This, however, was of short duration ; she was soon again prostrated, and sunk into a state of lethargy, from which she was awakened with the greatest difficulty, and only at short intervals, just sufficient to take a little nourishment or medicine. This continued for a few days, and then terminated in the sleep of death.

Upon Mr. Milton this blow fell with most crushing weight. He had returned his wife's affection, with all its fondness and fervor, and now that she was so suddenly, and forever, snatched from his embrace, his grief was almost insupportable. True, his dear babes were spared him ; but so overwhelming was this aflOiiction, that life seemed to have lost all its attractions ; and the sunshine wholly to have faded from his sky. The reader may form some idea of the strength of his feelings from the following lines, composed by himself, and inscribed upon his wife's tomb-stone.

*' How can I leave the spot, where moldering lies My lovely wife ? no, let my streaming eyes Once more behold her grave ; here let me stay, And sigh, and weep, and here, Oh let me lay This body down, and sleep with her in dust, Until the resurrection of the just.

But stop! my wife sleeps not beneath this sod ;

Her only conscious part now rests with God.

Far, far from this lone grave her spirit 's flown

To worlds of bliss. Her lovely clay, alone,

Lies moldering here. Yes, yes, consoling thought.

With hope, with comfort, and with .bliss 'tis fraught.

Now to her golden harp my lov'd one sings ;

With joyful heart she sweeps the trembling strings;

Her theme is love; her Saviour's praise repeats,

And ' Grace, free grace !* sounds through the golden streets;

Lo ! from the glorious seats of joy above,

Methinks I hear her speak in tones of love.

THE AFFLICTED HUSBAND. 6

* My husband dear, forbear, no longer sigh. Weep not for me ; behold, I dwell on high. Our dearest babes train up in Wisdom's ways, Teach them to give to God their earliest days. Embrace thy Savioub in the arms of faith ; Live to "thy God, my dear, prepare for death.' "

Alas for man ! in this world of sorrow, if destitute of the grace of God. But such (as we see) was not the case with Mr. Milton. He had early given his heart to his Saviour ; and though it is to be feared his beloved one had become his idol, yet, now that this idol was removed, his grief-stricken soul turned once more to his M,aker. Oh ! who can but admire the love and condescension of our Heavenly Father ; who, in compassion for weak, human nature, snatches away those objects which would rival him in the heart, thus leading us to seek for happiness in its only true source, His blessed self. Ah ! many may exclaim, with the psalmist, " It is good for me that I have been afflicted."

Chapter III. Early Impressions, Characteristics And Talents

OF THE BLIND GIRL.

\ 1 7 HEN the first shock of his severe affliction had V V somewhat subsided, Mr. Milton's attention was turned to his children. Little Mary, the elder, especially, was the subject of deepest solicitude. Born blind, and thus early deprived of a mother's care, he regarded her with more than paternal tenderness. He seemed to entertain the idea that her misfortunes were so great, that she should never be crossed if it were possible to avoid it ; and that her infirmity rendered her quite helpless. She was therefore indulged in every wish, and not allowed to help, or rely on herself in the least. This might have proved a serious injury to her, but for the interposition of a kind Providence. Indeed, she endured many a bitter pang in after life, in consequence of the early undue cultivation of her over sensitive nature ; which proved a source of constant trial, until overcome by Divine grace. But notwithstandingf his earnest care for the physical comfort of his child M|;. M. did not forget that she had a soul to

EARLY IMPRESSIONS, ETC. 7

be saved or lost ; and therefore did not neglect to administer the wholesome correction, which like all children, she sometimes needed.

He also took great pains to instil into her young and tender mind, the principles of Christianity. She can remember, even now, that when a vety small child, he would take her away alone and talk to her, in a most solemn and impressive manner, of the duty of loving God, and the great sinfulness of not doing so ; telling her that if she did not think about GtOD, it was sure proof that she did not love Him; and consequently was very wicked He also gave her to understand that in order to be good, she must experience a change of heart ; and taught her, (in connection with these conversations,) this simple prayer : "0 Lord, be pleased to forgive my sins, and give me a new heart and make me a good girl, for Christ*s sake." This, together with Dr. Watts' familiar stanza, " Now I lay me," &c., she was in the habit of repeating nightly, for years. True, these repetitions may have become somewhat formal, yet she realized to a great extent the import of the words she uttered, and said her prayers with a degree of reverence and solemnity.

It is a great mistake to suppose, as many do, that children are unfit subjects for the operations of the Divine Spirit : as soon as they can understand what is said to them, their religious training should be commenced. The mind of the child is far more susceptible to impressions than that of the adult ; and besides, their simple, confiding nature enables them far more easily to acquire the lesson of faith in God, than in riper years. If, therefore, you would have your children saved, commence their instruction very early in life, praying for Divine wisdom to direct : see that your example corresponds with your precept, and be sure that, with the blessing of God, their conversion, sooner or later, will be the result. " Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.'' There may be exceptions, but this is the rule.

Mary possessed a tender conscience and a serious, thoughtful mind ; and these lessons so faithfully given, and set home by the Holy Spirit, made deep and lasting impressions thereon. Sometimes at the close of a long day spent in careless play, the query would suggest itself,. Have I thought about God to-day ? and when forced to answer in the negative, a deep, painful sense of wickedness stole over her, filling her with alarm. These were her first convictions of sin ; and it is probable that conversion soon followed ; though this was not so strongly marked as to admit of its precise date. Truthfulness was one of her most prominent characteristics ; she had a great horror of telling a lie. Sometimes when sobbing and crying as if her little heart would break, in consequence of her father's correction, he would bid her be still, and ask when she would do so ; she would reply, now ; then he would remind her that if she did not instantly stop

EARLY IMPRESSIONS, ETC. 9

crying sKe would tell a lie, and every sob would be hushed in an instant.

A hasty temper was one pf the darkest features of her character : this sometimes led her to strike or pinch her lit.tle sister : but when called to give an account of her conduct, would never tell a falsehood or evea equivocate, to screen herself from punishment.

She discovered a remarkable talent for music, at an almost incredibly early age; she commenced to talk when but nine months old ; and even before she could utter a word, would hum a tune with astonishing accuracy. She, possessed a retentive memory, and took great pleasure in committing songs and hymns, which she sung greatly to the amusement of the family and neighbors.

She evinced from earliest childhood an intense thirst for learning. She attended the district school ; and though unable to study a lesson, she was allowed to spell with the rest, and was often at the head of her class, spelling as if by intuition. She frequently received words of praise from visitors of the school, and rewards of merit from her teacher, which afforded her no little satisfaction. But her isolated condition, consequent upon her want of sight, together with her remarkable originality, rendered her manners somewhat awkward and eccentric. This might have proved detrimental to her subsequent usefulness but for a change in her circumstances.

Chapter IV. Incidents Of School Days

"TTTE now come to the eighth year of Mary's life V V Her father had married a sister of his first wife, who supplied the place of a kind and tender mother to his children. One Summer evening, a teacher from the tostitution for the blind, ( then located at Pearl street, Boston,) called to see Mary, and presented her with two sheets of the blind print in raised letters ; one containing the alphabet, and the other being the introductory page of an atlas. Mary was in ecstacies ; and so eager was she to commence learning to read at once, that she insisted on doing so that night. To Mr. Milton, the idea of his little blind daughter's being educated in this manner, was new and seemed almost incredible. He placed her finger upon a letter, bidding her examine it closely then remove her finger and find the same again. After feeling the letter for some time in order to ascertain its shape, she withdrew her finger, and then replacing it upon the page, in a moment exclaimed with delight, here it is. Father. Mr. Milton fairly wept for joy. A new light

INCIDENTS OF SCHOOL DAYS. 11

now dawned upon Mary's mind. She would sit for days pouring over her reading, with intense interest. It was now determined to send her to school ; arrangements were made accordingly ; and in May, A. D. 1339, accompanied by her parents, she entered the institution at Boston and at once commenced her education. She was here thrown comparatively upon her own resources ; and sadly missed the parental tenderness and constant indulgence to which she had hitherto been accustomed. Nothing was wanting however, which was really necessary to her comfort ; and these lessons of self reliance and self sacrifice were just what she needed ; as her disposition would soon have been spoiled by undue indulgence. Though at first very homesick, she soon became acquainted with her mates and attached to her school ; pursuing her studies with great eagerness, especially music, which was her chief delieht. It was soon ascertained that she possessed a voice of unusual power and compass ; and her teacher assigned her a conspicuous place in the choir, and often brought her forward in the presence of visitors. But not being naturally diffident, this gave her no annoyance but rather a pleasure. The princir pal teacher of music was at that time partially insane ; and his insanity was much more apparent at some times than others. He was strongly attached to the blind children, and sympathized with them in all their little troubles. Mary inherited her parents' affectionate nature and the kind and tender treatment of her teacher won her little heart at once.

She also felt a deep sympathy for him in consequence of his infirmity ; and so closely did she watch his movements in order to ascertain the exact state of his mind from day to day, that as soon as he had opened the door, entered and closed it, she understood perfectly whether he was more or less rational than on the preceding day. But Mary, though so young, was not without her trials. It soon became known that she was in the habit of praying, and at one time while with some of her mates in her play room, they dared her to pray ; and when in the innocence and simplicity of her heart she did so, they burst into a loud latigh. Sometimes also, on hearing her sing her hymns they would make light of them. This seemed to her blasphemous and very wicked, and she shrank from them in terror. The idea of punishment was very dreadful to her, even though administered in its mildest forms. One day she became very angry with a playmate and pinched her. The girl immediately informed her teacher, who came to Mary and asked her what she had done. She franklv and unhesitatingly told her the truth. Then the teacher bade her go and sit in the music room closet, until she came for her. Now some of the scholars were practising in the music room during the whole afternoon ; and under other circumstances she would have been delighted to listen ; but music had no charms for her at that time ; she was punished and felt ashamed and disgraced. When the girls came up from supper, she overheard

INCIDENTS OP SCHOOL DAYS. 13

096 say to another: "Ah! Maiy Milton must have bread and water for supper to night/' The teacher coming up at that instant, replied : '' No shfe will have as* good as the rest, because she told the truth." Mary was highly gratified by this expression of approval, and after eating her supper was allowed to go ; feeling like a culprit pardoned and released from prison.

The vacations occurred in May and October, and continued four weeks each. Mary was always glad to visit her parents and friends at home, but soon became uneasy and longed to be again at school. It was a custom of the parents, when their children returned after vacation, to furnish them with little luxuries, which the latter called goodies ; these they were in the habit of dividing and exchanging with one another. Mary's mother hearing her speak of this, formed an idea that she was sometimes too liberal for her own interest. On one of these occasions she packed in her trunk, besides other goodies, some nice cakes, telling her she might share with, her mates as freely as she wished of the rest, but those she must eat herself, excepting one which she might give to an unfortunate friend. To Mary the command of her parents was law ; and she would not disobey the injunction of her mother, though the latter little realized that she was depriving her of the very pleasure she so much wished her to enjoy. When she had given the one cake to her friend her enjoyment of them was over. She fairly dreaded to touch them, and was heartily glad when the last one was gone.*

In general she rendered implicit obedience to the rules of the school whether she could violate them without detection or not ; and was artless and conscientious in all her actions. One exception however we will relate. The bell rang for retiring at quarter before nine and the schol^irs were required to go immediately to their rooms, and be in bed when the city bells struck nine. One evening Mary was writing and lingered a few moments, after bed time in order to finish. Then taking off her shoes in order to avoid being heard by the teachers, she crept softly up stairs to bed. Her conscience however would not allow her to rest after this underhanded proceeding until she had frankly confessed it to her teacher. She formed a very strong attachment for one of her school-mates, whom we shall call Sarah. Though widely differing from her in disposition, she regarded her with a love nearly approaching idolatry.

The following incident will convey an idea of the strength of her affection. One day by some hasty word she offended Sarah, and learning this, hastened to effect a reconciliation ; assuring her she was sorry if she had hurt her feelings, and desiring her forgiveness. —

* This kind step-mother died when Mary had attained her twelfth year, while she was at school. She felt her loss keenly for awhile, but being so constantly from home and having so much to occupy her mind did not realize it as she otherwise would have done.

INCIDENTS OF SCHOOL DAYS. 15

But Sarah maintained a sullen silence, Mary made several efforts to induce her to speak, but all to no purpose. At last, becoming discouraged, she said to her friends, that as she had tried so many times in vain to make friends with her, she would wait, now, until she spoke to her. Some one overhearing this ran lo Sarah with it, who immediately replied, that she should not speak until Mary did. This was a sad state of things for the latter, and especially so from the fact that they roomed together. That night, instead of their usual social chat, not a word was spoken. Mary turned her face to the wall and sobbed as if her heart would break, while Sarah remained apparently unmoved. The next day was Saturday, and the scholars had the afternoon to themselves. But it was no holiday for Mary ; she roamed from room to room like one forsaken. Sarah was no longer her friend and she could not be happy. Supper time came and she went to the dining room with the rest, but only tasted her supper: then she returned to the school room and seated herself there, overwhelmed and disconsolate. Pretty soon, Sarah, with some of the other girls, came up and sat down the opposite side of the room, Sarah laughing and chatting with the rest, as if nothing had happened. Mary could endure it no longer-: she went to Sarah's seat and commenced pleading, in the most earnest manner, to be restored to her friendship, again assuring her that she was sorry for what she had said, and imploring her to forgive.

She consented to do so, but said she thought they had better be intimate no longer ; this would not satisfy Mary. The thought of being regarded by Sarah only as an ordinary acquaintance, was not to be endured : and she continued to plead most eloquently for a complete reunion, sobs and tears the while attesting the strength of her feelings. Some of the older girls passing through the room, at the time, laughingly declared she was love-sick. Sarah, at last, was persuaded to yield, and Mary was happy again — happy beyond expression.

Study was her greatest pleasure. She was never behind her class ; and while many of the scholars wished to be helped over every difficult task, it was her great delight to work them out, if possible. Thus passed eight years of childhood ; bright, sunny, joyous days, as childhood's are, and perhaps even more so

f

than those of most children. Naturally cheerful and hopeful, she had less of clouds than sunshine.

But the Christian reader may inquire : Did Mary grow in grace during her school days ? We fear not. Study and play engrossed her whole attention : and having, while at school, no personal religious instruction, she gradually lost sight of her duty to God : though she still maintained her habit of prayer, and was at times conscious of a* degree of love for her Saviour. One day several of the girls were summoned one by one to the office of Dr. Howe, the superintendent of the institution, (Mary among the rest,) in or-

INCIDENTS OF SCHOOL DAYS. 17

der to converse with them relative to leaving the school. He asked her how she felt about it ; informing her that room must be made for other pupils, as several were then waiting to enter. She replied that she diet not choose to leave, but if he said so, she supposed she must. He asked her if she did not think she had acquired as good an education as she could have done could she have seen, other circumstances being the same ? She replied, yes, better. Then, he asked, what more do you want ? This question was unanswerable : she felt indeed that she could ask no more, and submitted without another word.

Vacation day came at last, and a sad day it was to Mary, perhaps the saddest she had ever known. The joy usually experienced on such occasions was totally lost in the thought of leaving forever those dear friends and associates she had loved so long. She was especially grieved to, part with her dear Sarah. Separation from her, with no immediate prospect of reunion, seemed a severe affliction. Sad and bitter were the tears she shed on that day ; as she bade adieu to teachers,, schoolmates and the dear old institution, and retired to her lonely home.

Chapter V. Home And Public Life

MARY had now reached her seventeenth year, being physically well developed, but in mind and judgment not yet mature. Impulsive and extremely sensitive in her disposition, with no knowledge of the world, she was but poorly calculated to plan or care for herself, and was highly favored by a kind Providence, in being permitted to share a father's home and protection. IS he was now to live with her second step mother, whom her father had married soon after the death of his previous wife. This woman was totally different from the other ; though a Christian, she was stiff, quiet and reserved in her manners, and therefore not so congenial with Mary as if she had been more social They lived together however on the best of terms, and became strongly attached to each other.

Her sister went from home to live, shortly after she left school, and they met but seldom ; which added to her loneliness. This sister was very kind to Mary, and when they were together did all in her power to make her happy ; insisting that she should accompany her wherever she went, whereas many girls, at her age, might have considered a blind sister an incumbrance. Mary had a half-brother at home, who helped her to while away some lonely hours; by walking with and sometimes reading to her. Her step-mothhad a daughter, then about eight years of age, whom she came to regard with a sisterly love. But for a time she was quite unhappy. The quiet monotony of her present life was so different from the past ; she had little to amuse or divert her. Sarah's absence was a special source of grief : she would sit for days, gloomily pondering over by-gone happy hours spent with her, contrasting them with her present lonely situation.

- About two months after their return from school she received a letter from Sarah, containing an invitation to visit her. Her heart leaped with joy at the thought. But would her father consent ? She hardly dared ask him, lest he should refuse. Trembling between hope and fear she went to him and presented her request. He hesitated for awhile ; but his desire to gratify his dear daughter finally overcame seeming impracticabilities, and he consented that she should go. A few weeks were spent very pleasantly with her friend ; and then she wrote home asking leave to prolong her stay. This, however, was denied ; her father writing, in answer, that an invitation awaited her, to travel with a gentleman and an old schoolmate, giving concerts. But she could not bear the thought of again parting with Sarah, and it was finally arranged that she should accompany her home.

When the time arrived for starting on their tour, the gentleman was persuaded to allow Sarah to go with them, on condition that she would demand no wages, save the payment of her traveling expenses ; to which arrangement she consented. Mary was not at all disconcerted in presence of an audience ; and when things went on smoothly, enjoyed public life very well. They were not very successful, however, and continued in the business but a short time. The company separated, and Mary was left lonely as ever. Some time after this, she and Sarah were applied to, by an acquaintance of the latter, to accompany him and his wife on a similar tour. They had better success this time, and traveled during the Winter, but separated again in the Spring.

These seasons of absence from her dearest friend were always attended with great sadness and despondency : yet she esteemed it a great comfort to pray for and hear from l;er. Sarah was sometimes negligent in her correspondence, in which case Mary's anxiety became almost insupportable; as her friend's health was quite frail. The following letter in verse was composed on one of these occasions, but never sent, as she received tidings from Sarah before it was committed to paper.